


to breathe, to hope

by uzumae



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, High School, M/M, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26450935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uzumae/pseuds/uzumae
Summary: As the night falls into a solemn hush, the sight of Osamu by the piano seems to fray at the edges, like a distant memory.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 27
Kudos: 75





	to breathe, to hope

**Author's Note:**

> cw for mentions of illness  
> vaguely inspired by kimiuso

The melody weaves itself into Suna’s ears with the delicate strength of a thin thread, gentle yet relentless, binding him to its tune. Quietly, quietly. The notes roll into a graceful peak, the thread twists, and Suna follows.

Outside, the moon hangs in the sky. Its presence floats over rows of windows and empty hallways and emptier classrooms. The night is calm—sacred—bringing with it a sort of tender peace. Suna feels himself sinking between its folds as the music swallows him.

Inside, Suna hangs by the thread of this melody. It tugs and pulls and unravels, and he finds his feet moving forward, each step taken to where the fluid harmony compels him to be. His eyes feel heavy, and his muscles ache from the drain of a long practice session, but his body endures as if mysteriously enchanted. And he thinks he might be, if only just a little.

He pauses in front of the old music room by the far end of the corridor. Memories of stories overheard whisper into his ear in caution. Still, he lifts a hand to slide the door open.

And there, beneath the trembling light of the moon, as the song rises into a perfect cadence, Suna meets a ghost.

* * *

“Apparently, our school is haunted.”

“Is it now?” Kita says, a small laugh at his lips as Akagi bursts into the club-room with this momentous piece of news.

“Yeah, listen to this, Shinsuke,” Akagi replies, shaking off a few droplets from his jacket and heading towards his locker.

As if wary of the ominous tale, the rain falls in thunderous stutters, crashing against rooftops and buildings with a strident cry. The sky melts into a somber shade of gray, and the shadows seep into the corners of their club-room. At his own locker, Suna listens absently to the exchange.

“Remember the old music room on the second-years’ floor?”

Oomimi glances up, “The one with the grand piano?”

Suna remembers this room. He’s passed it many times on the way down to the cafeteria. It’s nothing extraordinary, really. Inarizaki High School once had a classical music club who occupied the space but disbanded some time ago. That, coupled with the dwindling popularity of the school’s music program, left the room in a semi-permanent state of disuse. The music sheets scattered across the walls have grown yellow with age, and the piano that sits in the middle lies idle with dust. If anything, most people use it as a place to skip class.

A few steps away from him, Atsumu tenses but remains silent. Suna wonders if their miracle setter is afraid of ghost stories.

“Exactly, that one. A classmate of mine is on the baseball team, and during one of their later practices, a first-year accidentally threw a stray ball that broke the music room’s window. When he went to retrieve it, he heard someone playing the piano, but upon opening the door, _no one_ was inside.”

“You’re sure he didn’t just mishear it? Could’ve been his imagination,” Aran suggests, pulling a shirt over his head.

“He wasn’t the only one, though,” Akagi continues and reaches into his bag for a change of clothes. “A girl in the art club was working on a painting late into the evening last week, and on her way out, she heard the same eerie tune and spotted a dark figure standing over the piano.”

“Must be a delusion.”

“Or a prank.”

“Maybe,” Akagi smirks, leaning in close. A flash of thunder momentarily engulfs the room. “But maybe not.”

It depicts a vividly haunting scene—alone amidst the hollowness of a vacant school building at night, staring into an abandoned music room. The piano keys begin playing themselves, and a dark silhouette slowly looms overhead. Suna suppresses the involuntary shiver that crawls down his spine.

“Enough of the ghost stories,” Kita says with a stern but not unkind tone. A gentle hand rests on Akagi’s shoulder, “Let’s get to practice, everyone.”

Soon enough, the ghost’s mirage wavers with the image of blinding courts and flawless serves. That’s right. They aren’t here to dawdle on stories of haunted music rooms. They’re here to play, where the weight of the ball in their hands conquers any such trepidation or thoughts.

Atsumu lingers, though, gazing blankly into his locker even as the club-room empties one by one. His fingers clench at the edge of metal, blunt nails flushed white under the pressure.

In playful amusement, Suna nudges him on his way out, “Scared, Miya?”

Then Atsumu turns to look at him, and Suna pauses in his step.

“As if,” the other responds before brushing past his shoulder to head to the door.

Silently, his eyes follow the width of Atsumu’s back as it grows smaller in the distance. Suna remembers the faint crease between his brows and the depth within his eyes, swirling with subdued urgency. It was almost as if he seemed burdened in some imperceptible way. Suna blinks.

At that moment, Miya Atsumu had looked impossibly sad.

* * *

Suna stares unflinchingly at the ghost seated on the piano bench in the middle of the old music room. Except the ghost isn’t really a ghost and rather a human boy, who stares back at him and wears the face of one of his teammates.

“You’re…” he starts.

Identical features. A placid undertone of gray. Hair swept to the opposite side. A hint of mild disinterest in murky eyes as fingers pause against the keys. The ghost is a beautiful human boy.

“...not Miya.”

“No,” the boy replies, swiveling around and tilting his head to the side. “But I’m _a_ Miya.”

Suna feels like his brain is lagging behind, taking extra steps to catch up to him, “Huh?”

“My name’s Miya Osamu. And you must be Suna Rintarou.”

“How do you know that?” Suna gapes. He hopes there isn’t a stupid-looking expression on his face right now.

“You have a funny look on your face right now, Suna-san,” Miya Osamu says, cheeky in his tone, eyes glancing up and down Suna’s frame. Great, Suna thinks as he fights the embarrassment flaring across his cheeks, just great. “My brother tells me about his teammates all the time.”

“Brother? Miya Atsumu has a brother?” and a twin at that?

“Unfortunately, yes,” he laughs softly. “I’m Miya Atsumu’s twin brother.”

In the presence of this Miya Osamu, eyes transfixed upon a face that seems both strikingly familiar and distant, Suna finds himself slipping between chasms. There are moments when you discover little things about the people around you. A passing glance that catches a secret smile between palms, or a dusty picture frame found at the corner of a bedroom drawer. Tiny, cracking fragments that reveal a humanity hidden beneath the surface. But meeting this boy isn’t a narrow fissure. Rather, it’s as if Suna’s missed an entire step on the staircase and sunk into a world he doesn’t recognize. It feels intrusive—unreal.

Suna takes six steps forward and, in a single robotic motion, places both hands on Osamu’s shoulders.

“Um,” Osamu says, confusion written all over his face, but he doesn’t move to shove the hands away. “What are you doing?”

Suna feels fabric between his fingertips, a light material against his palms, and beneath that, an expanse of skin. Skin, warm and tangible and smooth, “Nothing. Just… making sure you’re real.”

“Is there a reason why I wouldn’t be?”

“It’s a feeling I have.”

“A feeling, you say?” Osamu smirks, turning back to the piano as Suna’s hands fall away. “It’s alright. I understand. I’m sure Tsumu's never mentioned me before.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Suna pauses to think.

Atsumu has never seemed like the type to conceal things from people. From his hair to his words to his confidence on the court, everything about him screams _eyes on me, eyes on me, eyes on me_. Suna’s gaze travels down at Osamu’s even-tempered countenance, considering the other’s quiet understanding and muted shades. It’s hardly imaginable that someone like Atsumu has a twin, and one that appears to flicker in the shadows of everything that defines the other.

“I go to a different school, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Osamu continues, hand lightly grazing over the keys from where he left off. “They don’t have a piano at my school, and Tsumu mentioned there was an old music room in his that no one used, so I started sneaking in here from time to time to play.”

He slides to the edge of the piano bench and nods to the empty space beside him. Still somewhat baffled, Suna takes the offered seat.

“What about you, Suna-san? What are you doing at school so late?”

“Just ‘Suna’ is fine,” he says, unable to stop himself from sneaking glances at the other. “I had practice afterschool that ran late and accidentally left my phone, so I came back to get it.”

Osamu perks up at this, “Volleyball practice, right?”

Suna nods, observing the glint of curiosity that suddenly reveals itself in Osamu’s otherwise steady demeanour.

“Tell me, what’s Tsumu like as a setter? On the court? Is it exciting to play with him?”

“Atsumu? He’s,” Suna ponders for a moment, “cocky, overdramatic, and blindingly ambitious. But talented. Our team probably wouldn’t be where we are now without him.”

“Hah. Sounds about right.”

“You don’t play volleyball?”

“No,” Osamu quiets and stares down at his hands where they rest against the piano. “I wanted to when I was younger. He wanted me to be there with him, you know, as his twin. But certain things came up along the way and I wasn’t able to pursue it like how he did.”

“Oh,” Suna says. And he pictures this: Atsumu and Osamu on a court, a formidable set of twins at a powerhouse school. A dream of something that could’ve been.

“Besides, I don’t have the same love for it that Tsumu does.”

“Is there something you love then?” Suna wants to pinch himself. He doesn’t know why he asked such a strange question, but there’s something about finding a beautiful boy in an abandoned music room in the middle of the night that makes the world feel as though reality could unwind at any second. So he takes this chance.

Osamu shifts to face him, “Do you have the time to listen?”

“Sure.”

The evening’s momentum resumes its pace when Osamu begins to glide his fingers across the piano once more, dancing from note to note. Unlike earlier, the song he plays jolts to life, a fast and spirited tempo. It reaches forth from the keys and clenches around Suna’s shoulders, saying _hello, hello, it’s nice to meet you!_

Suna peeks at Osamu from the corner of his eye. He sees the glimmer that ripples through a hazy gray and smiles to himself. In his chest, an achingly tender warmth unfurls.

* * *

It is said that ghosts are bound to the place of their origin. Suna thinks of this when he finds Osamu in the music room again, night after night, settled at the piano bench in a tranquil visage. He plays much more than he speaks, trading words for sentiments conveyed through the grace of his melodies. And Suna listens, patiently, for anything he has to say, in song or in speech. This, he realizes, is how he discovers a life buried in music.

“They’ve made a ghost story out of you, d’you know?” Suna says one night, nibbling on an onigiri that Osamu had made for them. Clearly, he’s good with food too. “Everyone thinks this place is haunted now.”

“Really? That’s nice.”

“How’s that nice?”

Osamu’s fingers do not leave the piano, and a fragile tune drifts between them, almost palpable in the evening air, “Because stories are a way of existing. They used to say that gods were born from people’s stories of belief.”

“You already exist, though.”

Osamu smiles a sweet little smile, “Do I?”

Here, Suna watches him, examining how the moonlight falls upon his skin like a phantom caught between the fractures of a waking dream. Does Miya Osamu exist? If they were to leave this room and step out into the daylight, would he disappear?

“I like to think that I do,” dim eyes flutter to a close and the song rises into a grand crescendo. “I exist here and there, in the music I play, in the keys I press, or in the food I make.”

“Is that why you play?”

“Partly,” Osamu replies, and then the music softens. The melody holds a candle to his chest as the next words glow with honesty. “And for someone to listen, too. To listen and remember.”

To listen and remember. The music room echoes with these words, stark and weighted, reverberating across hallways cold with bareness. Meanwhile, Suna sits there in warmth, and Osamu’s music envelops him. It caresses gently, subtly, not like Atsumu’s incandescent _watch me_ , but like something frailer. A softer, almost inaudible, _listen and remember me, please_.

If Suna listens closely, it is nearly as though the piano’s sound whispers of this clouded fear. Nonetheless, he tries not to dwell on it. Instead, he shifts a little closer and allows their knees to brush against each other. It’s an anchor of sorts, he wants to believe.

* * *

Suna tilts his head up, and the stars beam down at him. The sports bag on his shoulder thumps against his hip in a stable rhythm. Ahead of him, the road to the station stretches long and dark after another weary night of practice.

“Miya.”

The figure in front halts. Languidly, Atsumu turns over his shoulder to gaze back at him. Identical faces, identical features. And yet, there’s a specific air that distinctly differentiates one from the other.

“You never told us about your twin,” Suna says.

A few steps away, beneath the light of a flickering street lamp, Atsumu remains silent. He doesn’t move to say anything but simply looks at him. Blank and—considering.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says at last. “You’ve met him.”

It doesn’t come out as a question, but Suna nods regardless.

“I guess it just never came up,” Atsumu shuffles his feet a bit, kicks a stray pebble to the side. “He doesn’t go here.”

“He told me.”

Atsumu glances up at him, “Samu talks about you sometimes, you know. The teammate with foxy eyes and a nice smile.”

Nice smile? Suna bites his lip to fight the growing grin and digs his face into the collar of his shirt. His next words come out a little giddier than expected, “He does?”

“Gross.”

“Shut up.”

Reaching over, Suna shoves him lightly on the shoulder and they laugh, eyes bright and lustrous like children sharing a secret.

“You’ve heard him play, then?” Atsumu asks.

“‘Course I have. It’s all he does.”

Atsumu scoffs, but it’s brimming with fondness, “I know. I’ve been trying to get him to spend some time away from the piano, but here he is, climbing into our school’s music room just to play.”

In his mind, Suna ponders about this. Osamu has always played with dedication, as if he has something to say, something he yearns to reach towards through every note fulfilled.

“Still, he’s really good at it. Almost—” Suna thinks of a heavy word, “gifted, I’d say.”

“Yeah, he is,” a twinge of pride hangs at the edge of Atsumu’s voice. Suna allows himself a hidden smile at that. They are brothers, after all.

When they continue down the street, Atsumu grows somewhat restless, as though he’s thinking of what he wants to say. And right as they reach the station, at the crossroad placed just before it, the words finally surge forth.

“Hey,” he declares with a start. “I’m glad you met Samu. He’s been looking a lot livelier lately, you know.”

Then Atsumu swiftly turns to leave, not providing Suna a chance to respond. Once again, he finds himself staring at the width of Atsumu’s back in the distance. The vague statement repeats itself in his head, and he steals another look up at the sky. The stars continue to blink down at him, deceptively constant in their presence. Amongst them, a dimmer star flares, quivers, and snuffs out.

* * *

“The moon looks like a manju bun tonight.”

Suna takes a glimpse at Osamu as the music flows to a stop, “What?”

“The moon,” Osamu, straight-faced, lifts a hand and points out the music room’s window, deliberately ignoring the messy tape plastered across the cracks. “It looks like a manju bun.”

Suna’s gaze follows his hand, “Oh, you’re right.”

“Ah,” Osamu says suddenly. “I’m hungry.”

And all Suna can do is laugh, leaning back against his hands as the sound of his unrestrained laughter rings throughout the room. Only Osamu would look at the moon and find himself becoming hungry. He imagines Osamu reaching up to take a big bite out of the pale, glorious moon, yearning to taste what lies beyond his grasp. It’s fitting.

“Hey, Suna,” Osamu begins, nibbling at the inside of his cheek as the chuckles diminish, “are you going to continue playing volleyball after this?”

He blinks at the unexpected change in topic. What about the manju moon? And it is then that Suna observes how Osamu’s face has grown curiously grave. He’s always been rather quiet, but this time the silence dips into something more stifling.

“You mean after high school? I guess so. I haven’t really thought much about what I want to do after all this.”

Osamu hums and dabs at the middle C key, “If you could do anything in the world then, what would you do?”

“Uh, travel, maybe? Earn a lot of money? I don’t know. I guess in all the dreams I have for the future I’d always be playing volleyball in some way.”

Beside him, Suna tilts his head and observes Osamu. As the night falls into a solemn hush, the sight of Osamu by the piano seems to fray at the edges, like a distant memory.

“What about you?” Suna responds—quietly, so as to not disrupt the fragility of the mirage before him.

Osamu doesn’t answer immediately. Rather, he takes a few moments to consider this, scrutinizing the possibility of anything. He presses the middle C key once more, then stops.

“I think I’d want to know what it’s like to stand on the court with my brother, even if it’s just for a little while. Tsumu used to hold my hand a lot when we were kids. We’d fight and argue, but he always pulled his punches. I think he knew even then that I could never give him what he wanted. So I’d want to try, for him.”

The words are plucked from his mouth tenderly, dense with tired, old sorrow. Hearing this, Suna wonders what he is yet to understand of the other, “You’d want to play volleyball? I can teach you.”

“Nah, it’s fine. ‘Sides, that’s more of a momentary dream. If I could do _anything_ for myself, I think I’d open a food shop. A nice place where people could meet and talk and eat good food,” he smiles, a touch of wistfulness. “There’d be a piano at the corner of the shop where people would be free to play, and I’d make sure that no one leaves on an empty stomach.”

“Well, why can’t you?”

“That sort of thing needs time, and…” Osamu’s voice falters, “I’m not looking too far ahead.”

 _What do you mean?_ Suna wants to ask, but his mouth opens and the only thing that descends from it is silence. In the next heartbeat, the moment crystallizes in time. As he sits there, frozen, Osamu hovers his hands against the keys, seeking a fleeting sense of warmth from a cold piano and a colder silence. Without a noise, Suna awaits. What is Osamu trying to convey through his music now?

Then, he turns towards Suna, “Let’s get manju buns at the convenience store later.”

“You’re not going to finish playing?”

Osamu peeks at the piano, rubbing a finger along the curve of its side. The action whispers of an emotion akin to loneliness, and when he lifts his finger away, it reveals a thin layer of dust.

“Not tonight. I’m tired.”

* * *

In the following days that come to pass, Suna finds himself greeted by an empty music room. Encircled by lifeless walls, he maintains his sight on the bare piano bench. The smooth black surface gleams under the moonlight, its legs casting a long shadow against the floor. How stark someone’s absence can be, he realizes, when faced with what remains.

Releasing a sigh, he slumps against the doorframe. It’s a childish thought, but he entertains the idea that if he stares hard enough, perhaps Osamu will appear by the piano once more. An elusive presence that exists only between the stutters of time, like the fleeting intake of breath before words are spoken.

A scoff leaves his lips, and he turns around to head back down the darkened hallways. Maybe Osamu’s busy, or studying, or simply forgetful. Who knows. There’s an entire life in him that Suna knows little of. The Osamu he knows only exists within four walls of an abandoned room, where a piano awaits use at odd hours of the night.

The night bleeds into morning, days trickle into a week, and the tempo of life endures immovably. In turn, Suna goes to school, goes to volleyball practice, goes home, and goes to sleep. Repeat.

He doesn’t receive any unordinary looks from Atsumu either, who’s still shooting cheeky remarks between practices in his own special form of nonchalance. No indication that anything has changed. And this, in part, is what deflates any desire Suna had to bring his twin up. It seems bizarre to bring up Osamu’s name in the daytime, tentative in the same way that one trembles before snapping a thread in half.

And so it is almost as if Miya Osamu has never even existed.

* * *

Then, at the startling height of summer, Osamu returns, just as unpredictable as his initial appearance had been. Suna feels the evening summer breeze slide against his back as Osamu looks up at him, slouching against the piano bench with one hand offering a _chuupet_.

“Want one?” Osamu says, the sound muffled by the _chuupet_ in his own mouth. He gazes up at Suna with a dull look, as if nothing ever happened.

He pushes himself to reply, “Sure.”

When he takes the _chuupet_ from the other’s hand, his fingers brush against Osamu’s palm. It’s this electrifying realisation that the figure in front of him is real once more. Even after all this time, he still finds the touch reassuring.

“Thanks,” Suna says as the cold sweetness bursts in his mouth. The tingles in his mouth sing of a saccharine joy, all the way down to his feet.

“Perfect for summer, right?”

“Yeah,” Suna’s tongue darts out to coat his lower lip, tasting the remnants of a fruity flavor. In the stillness, he observes the boy in front of him. The small grin on Osamu’s face does little to mask the exhaustion that wears itself across his features. He looks thinner, drained and pale, far from the luster than once shone in him at the sight of the piano.

“Did you know,” although soft, Osamu’s words pierce through his ears, “there’s a summer festival going on nearby?”

“Oh, that. There’s a bunch of them happening around this time, right?”

“Yeah, but this one’s close to the school,” Osamu’s voice grows faint as he contemplates for a while. In the heartbeat that follows, he looks up with quivering excitement hidden in a half-lidded gaze, “Suna, let’s go watch the fireworks together.”

Suna’s eyebrows shoot up, “Right now? Even if it’s pretty close, we’ll have to walk quite a bit to get there. We might miss the fireworks anyway.”

“No, no,” Osamu says, standing up. He lurches forward and curls his fingers around Suna’s own. The warmth of a maybe-phantom’s touch is so startling that Suna’s hand turns stiff, frigid even when Osamu’s grasp is so, so warm. “I have an idea.”

And then they’re off down the hallways. Osamu’s hand drags Suna forward past rows of empty classrooms, the shadows behind clawing and chasing after them. He sees the moonlight cast a halo around Osamu’s hair as they flicker past windows, and he nearly stumbles upon his own feet as they race to their destination. Well, Osamu races. Suna mostly allows himself to be led.

“Do we have to see this one?” he says, almost tripping at the bend of a corridor. “There’s always next year.”

But Osamu tilts his head back, a gentle moonlit sheen curving across his cheek, and rises just above a whisper, “Next year’s not the same.”

They wind up at the pool, where the flutter of festival-goers wafts into their ears from miles away. Inarizaki’s swimming pool has a low, rusty fence, and when Osamu tests his grip by placing a foot between one of the gaps, Suna hesitates to stop him.

“Hurry up, Suna,” Osamu grins, fingers between metal as he swings to the top and hops down on the other side.

Suna watches him for a moment. The criss-cross pattern of the fence slices into Osamu’s visage, but even then he can’t ignore the breathless elation that beams through. So he sighs, takes off his school blazer, and shoves a foot into the fence to climb, “You’re kinda insane.”

A lop-sided smirk welcomes him when he lands on the other side, and it tells him _yes, but you’re still here with me_. And now Suna believes that _he’s_ insane, because underneath the blanket of the evening, by the unlit waters of the pool, he thinks that Osamu glows even brighter, even lighter, pushing past everything that the night weighs down upon him.

His heart grows painfully fond, and so Suna squeezes the hand that holds his own. A bead of sweat slides down Osamu’s neck like honey. On the tip of Suna’s tongue are sweeter words, but of course, the words that slip out instead are, “And you’ve got awful stamina too.”

Osamu laughs, throwing his head back, “Yeah, I know.”

He pulls them closer to the edge of the pool, where the sight of the sky stretches vastly, unhindered by buildings or trees.

“‘M’just,” Osamu pants briefly, “not so great with the physical stuff.”

Then why is he being so reckless? Suna gives him a light bump on the shoulder, “You should be more careful then.”

“But that’s not nearly as fun.”

Recklessness, Suna discovers, looks like the odd finality that Osamu hides between the crevices of his expressions. His eyes dart around the pool and linger on Suna, and the grasp around his hand is mellow with grief. But recklessness is pretty on Osamu, in the same way that bright and precious things fade fast.

“Look,” Osamu says, tugging him closer. “It’s starting.”

Suna turns his head as the first firework whistles through the sky, piercing through the night’s silence. It’s lustrous and beautiful as it shatters, quickly falling apart.

Entranced, Osamu’s hand falls away as he steps up to one of the pool’s starting blocks to see clearer.

“Osamu?” Suna drifts towards him, hand clenching around empty air. “Hey, watch out. You could fall from there.”

But Osamu swings around, facing him with his back turned towards a sky that shines overwhelmingly full with a vibrant transience. A sight that demands to be remembered.

“If I do, you’ll catch me, right?” he says.

Suna stares up at him. There’s a boundless distance between them in spite of only being inches apart, the kind where Osamu only seems to shine brighter the further away he gets. Like this, underneath an explosion of color and light, as the fireworks dance above them in a celebration of their own, Suna melts at the sight of Osamu’s smile, soft and sad and sweet altogether. There’s so much he wants to ask him when that strange pang of finality reveals itself once again. _Where have you been? What were you doing? Why is it so hard to hold onto you?_

And even more still, deep within his chest, crushing against his ribcage, _can I please pull you closer to me?_

“Osamu, I—”

In a peculiar sort of delayed motion, Suna observes with eyes growing wide as Osamu suddenly takes a faulty step backwards, releases a ridiculously sounding squawk, and slips against the edge of the starting block. Body moving without command, Suna leaps forward with his own panicked noise, his prior sentence disregarded. He stretches his arm towards him, as much as he can, and shuts his eyes.

The next thing he knows is the blinding burst of cold water all around him. He makes the mistake of crying out in shock, only for the pool water to come rushing into his mouth. Startled, his eyes shoot open and he sees this.

Osamu is laughing, openly, heartily, freely. Around him, bubbles of air escape his lips and caress his cheeks, smooth beneath the flashing lights of the fireworks above them. In the water, as dampened rays spear through the surface, clothes billowing around their limbs, bodies floating above the depths, Osamu looks—

Osamu looks—

Suna’s running out of breath, and his lungs are starting to burn, aching for air. But he doesn’t want to break through the surface just yet. Cheeks flushed, he opens his mouth slightly and mutters three muffled words. He wants to be heard. He doesn’t want to be heard. The bubbles that carry his heart flutter in the water before rising to the surface, popping.

A hand reaches out to him then, and he closes his eyes. Together, they push against the floor of the pool, and when he clears his sight, they’ve burst past the surface.

Osamu gasps, short-winded from his laughter, “You said you’d catch me.”

“ _You_ said that, not me,” Suna answers, a bit snappy from getting wet. But, if anything, it’s merely an excuse to conceal the revelation that had struck him then. “I told you that you’d fall.”

He offers a lazy shrug, “Oops.”

Slowly, they wade through the water before grabbing onto the edge and hoisting themselves up. Puddles form beneath them as they wring out their wet clothes.

“I hope no one was around to hear that,” Suna says, still twisting the bottom of his shirt. Beside him, Osamu shakes the sleeves of his damp sweater and heads for the bench near the pool. “Kita-san’s gonna kill me if we get in trouble for breaking into the school pool.”

“Kita-san? That’s your captain, right?”

“Yep,” Suna bends down to pick up the blazer he had discarded earlier, thankfully dry, and walks over to the bench where Osamu is sitting with his knees up. Carefully, he drapes the blazer over the other’s shivering form. At the back of his mind, he notes that he’s never seen Osamu in a school uniform before. “Our captain never raises his voice at us, but deep-down we’re all terrified of him. There’s something about his presence.”

“Oh, yeah, Tsumu never shuts up about him.” Osamu chuckles and tugs Suna’s blazer tighter around him. “Why don’t you tell me more about your team?”

“But doesn’t Atsumu talk a lot about us already?”

“Sure, but I want to hear about it from your perspective too.”

Noticing Osamu’s distant look, Suna takes a seat beside him and rests his chin against his palm, “Well, aside from Kita-san, the other third-years are Oomimi, Akagi, and Ojiro.”

“Oh, Aran,” Osamu’s face lights up with recognition. “Tsumu told me he first met him at a volleyball camp back in fourth grade. They’ve known each other for a long time. He has a cool-sounding name, don’t you think?”

“I guess,” Suna contemplates this. “You’ve never met him?”

Osamu tilts his head to the side and digs his face between his knees, “I can’t play volleyball, remember? Never went to volleyball camps.”

“Right,” Suna clears his throat. “Anyways, Akagi-senpai was also the one who spread the music room ghost story to the volleyball team. He was pretty excited about it.”

“That so? Did it scare you?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

At Osamu’s slight smirk, Suna shoots him a weak glare before continuing, “There are a couple other second years on the team too, and your brother, me, and Ginjima. Speaking of which, Ginjima and I caught a nice video of Atsumu getting smacked in the face with a volleyball the other day.”

“No wonder Tsumu came home with a nasty bruise. I just assumed someone finally had enough of him and punched him in the face.”

Their laughter echoes throughout the vacant space, distorted by the noise of the last fireworks above. Beneath them, the drip of water from their clothes sets a slowing rhythm to the evening. Summer nights have their own special tune, played to the magic of the season, and it chimes silently between them.

“Must be nice being part of a team,” Osamu says quietly and buries his face lower in his grasp. “You spend almost everyday with your teammates, laughing together, making memories together. All these people will remember you and the time you have with them.”

“Yeah, it’s not too bad,” Suna replies, somewhat confused by the latter part of the statement.

By then, the fireworks have ended. What endures now is the night’s gripping solemnity. Farther away, the festival-goers have quieted as well, hanging onto the last of the festivities. Osamu remains silent for a long time. Then—

“Suna.”

Suna shifts his gaze towards him. Knees bunched up against his chest, face hidden between his hold, Osamu looks small and almost scared. Suna’s blazer swallows his figure and it really does seem that he’s grown thinner since the last time they met.

Moving to stare up at an empty sky, Osamu says, “How long do you think it takes to forget someone?”

A cricket begins to chirp from somewhere. He continues.

“How many years until you forget the color of the sweater I’m wearing today? The sound of the fireworks above us? The cold rush of water when we fell into the pool?” his voice holds a gentle melody, and it reminds Suna of the songs he often plays. “Two years? Ten years? Twenty?”

Suna smirks softly, “Fifty years later and I’m sure I’ll still remember the stupid face you made when you realized you were falling into the pool.”

The pause stretches into a few seconds before Osamu lets out a huff, chuckling under his breath. Later, Suna will remember this: how tender Osamu seems beneath the moonlight, how Suna’s fingers move without thinking, and how he reaches forward to gingerly push the dripping bangs away from Osamu’s eyes. A sacred, feather-light touch.

For a moment, Osamu freezes. Shaken by reality, Suna’s hand falls back to his side as a furious shade of embarrassment blossoms across his cheeks. Then, to his surprise, Osamu slowly bends his head to rest against Suna’s shoulder. From the corner of his eye, Suna spots the way his cheeks lift into a slow smile.

Very faintly, Osamu whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

There is no reply. Heart pounding in his chest, Suna feels the delicate tempo of Osamu’s breath against his skin, the weight of him against his shoulder. Cold and feathery.

Suna doesn’t know how long it takes to forget someone, but he does know this.

_Fifty years later and I still won’t forget how you smiled at me beneath the fireworks._

* * *

After that night, Osamu stops showing up at the music room. Inevitably, things change. Suna finds himself dazed during class, wondering if he did anything to upset the other. But perhaps, a part of him scrambles to reassure, this is normal. Perhaps, like last time, Osamu simply needs time to himself. Still, the gnawing worry persists.

It lives in the littlest of moments—as he peeks inside the music room on the way down to the cafeteria, as he catches sight of the swimming pool on the way to the gym, his chest determinedly tugs him towards traces of Osamu.

There are nights after practice when he wanders into the music room anyway. Suna slides the door open, and the bleak emptiness of the lonesome piano as it sits in the middle beckons him close. Unraveling, he gravitates towards it. Occasionally, although he’ll never admit this, he attempts to press the keys from memory of watching Osamu play. It’s silly. He’s not Osamu. He can’t bring the piano to life in the way that Osamu does.

But as he sits there, fingers laid across black and white strips, the memory of a presence haunts him. And when his hands come away dusty, it feels a little like an endless distance. A little like longing.

Weeks pass this time, and one day Atsumu doesn’t show up at practice. Arguably, their team grows concerned. Atsumu has never missed practice before. When he brings this up to Kita-san, their captain dips his head and says, _there’s something going on with his family_. Suna bites the inside of his cheek, hard. _He might not be back for a while._

A few nights later, he receives a text from Atsumu.

* * *

He hears the low creaking of a swing from several steps away. Tentatively, Suna approaches the old playground. Above him, a street lamp flickers once, twice, and he clenches his hands into fists. Farther from the light, enveloped by the dark, Atsumu looks up from his spot on the swing.

“You wanted to meet?” Suna asks, treading closer.

Atsumu is unusually mute, nodding as he settles into the swing beside him. Suna eyes the other, noticing the prominent dark circles and the tired air that falls upon his shoulders. He grips the cool metal chain of the swing tight, for bearing.

“Is this about Osamu?”

Atsumu finally turns to look at him and runs a hand through messy hair, “Uh, yeah.”

“Is,” his knuckles grow pale around the chain, “is there something wrong with him?”

And it’s like a dam bursting when Atsumu speaks next, exhaustion overflowing in his heavy sigh, “Listen, Suna. I’ve been trying not to tell you about this because Samu didn’t want you knowing.” 

He breathes in, “Samu’s been sick for a long time. Ever since we were children, actually. We’ve always known that his body is much weaker than normal, but we just never thought it’d get this bad this quickly. He had to drop out of school last year to focus on his treatment at the hospital.”

There’s a screeching ring in Suna’s ears then. And all he can think of are too-pale, too-thin figures by the edge of a pool, of maybe-phantoms in a dark music room. Of a cold, feathery touch on skin.

“Sick? Like, how sick?”

Atsumu’s stare remains fixed to the ground, “He was doing okay up until a few months ago. He was supposed to get surgery back then, but it didn’t go well, and the doctors said that they’d run out of options. After that, Samu started doing all these reckless things like sneaking out of the hospital at night to come to our school.”

In his lap, Suna holds his trembling fingers. Atsumu takes a knowing glance at him.

“It isn’t your fault, just so you know,” Atsumu says. “We agreed that we want Samu to be as happy as possible, and he’s smiling a lot more now that he’s met you.”

“That brat’s hard to please, too,” he adds, a tiny, fond smile on his lips as he rubs the inside of his palms. “He used to cry a whole lot when I left for volleyball camps without him as a kid.”

Throughout all this, Suna doesn’t utter a word. A widening void has planted itself within him, and he doesn’t know what there is for him to say. Except that it’s all starting to make sense. Except that he should’ve noticed sooner. Except that there is still nothing he can do.

“We all wanted to imagine that Samu still has more time, but that’s not the case now,” Atsumu stands from the swing, slow with effort. “What I’m saying is, you should visit him.”

 _While you still can_ , goes unspoken. Suna turns towards him, but Atsumu’s already moving to leave, back bowed in aged grief.

“I’ll text you the hospital address,” he says as he walks away. Atsumu’s voice wavers, face turned away, and one hand grips the fabric of his pants firmly. It’s a minute gesture, but it conveys enough.

Still submerged in silence, Suna discovers himself sinking into a memory.

_How long do you think it takes to forget someone?_

* * *

The scent of the hospital rattles in his bones, tying ends and beginnings together within its pristine walls and crisp hallways. Suna stands in front of a door, phone in hand, and contemplates his steps. Not too long ago, he was standing in front of a different kind of door, faced with a different kind of apprehension. And this brought him to the start of something precious he holds within his heart. Isn’t it funny, how some things start frail, only to grow frighteningly immense in its end?

He reaches for the handle, but the door slides open before he makes contact with it. Flinching, he comes face to face with Miya Atsumu. Atsumu blinks, looking over him for a second, before smirking and calling over his shoulder.

“Oi Samu, your prince charming is here.”

“Shut up.”

A pillow comes flying their way, and Atsumu moves to flawlessly receive it. It bounces off his arms and flops against the floor in a sad motion.

“This isn’t volleyball, dumbass,” Osamu says as Atsumu bends down to pick it up. Then, his face melts into a softer expression, “Suna, come in.”

“Thanks, for, uh,” Suna eyes dart around, “letting me visit.”

The place appears rather lived-in for a hospital room. Suna’s sight glides towards the couch against the wall, where a pile of clothes and an open bag sit idly. Atsumu’s Inarizaki jacket is thrown haphazardly amidst the pile, as if he had come running from practice to the hospital one day and never left Osamu’s side since then, and he might’ve, for all Suna knows. Draped across the couch’s frame is a worn, faded blanket, littered with pastel volleyball patterns. At the top corner, a hastily embroidered message, _Tsumu and Samu’s shared blankie!_

Atsumu pats him on the shoulder when he heads out the room, “I’ll leave the both of you.”

While the door slides to a close, Suna hovers with uncertainty. Golden flares of sunlight seep into the room as the sun falters below the horizon. Osamu’s head angles towards him, eclipsing the sunset’s center from view, but all that Suna sees is the line of the heart monitor, the sharp structures of the hospital bed, the clear lines of the IV bag, dripping, succumbing.

“You brought something with you?” Osamu says, shattering the tension.

Suna’s hand clutches the plastic bag’s handle as he settles into the seat next to the hospital bed, sluggish in his movements.

“Yeah, I got you manju buns, because,” and he pauses, _because the night you told me the moon looked like a manju bun I realized I was afraid to lose you_. He pinches the skin of his palm. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. “Because I thought you’d like them.”

Osamu visibly brightens, “Thanks. I doubt you’d know, but manju buns are pretty high up on my list of top last meals on Earth.”

“Please…” Suna rubs his forehead and lets out an exasperated sigh, “don’t joke about that.”

“Oh, sorry.”

He places the bag of manju buns on the bedside table and watches as it slumps a bit pathetically. Maybe he should’ve brought something grander, something more worth remembering. A fruit basket? A bouquet? Suna thinks he’d bring Osamu a piano, if he could.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Suna mumbles, and he hates how pitiful it sounds. He isn’t the one hurting.

“I didn’t want you treating me like I was going to leave soon. Everyone always tiptoes around every little thing when they’re with me,” Osamu's eyes rise to meet Suna’s, impassively calm, “but I wanted to experience things with you as if I still had everything to look forward to.”

Toes curling beneath him, Suna finds it impossible to look away.

“I know it’s selfish, but it was nice being around you without mentioning anything—it felt like I could peek into what a normal life might’ve been like.”

“Osamu…”

“Because,” and now Osamu is the first to tear his gaze away. The sun slips lower, the shadows swell larger, and the silhouette by the hospital bed grows weaker. In a small voice, he says, “I have dreams too.”

The line of the IV drip trembles when Osamu’s hands float towards him, “Even like this, I still have so much I want to do.”

Suna accepts them, cradling them in his hold. A pair of beautiful, lithe hands; punctured hands, strong hands, hands that have poured bits of himself in hopes of creating something that would last, at least in memory. He runs a thumb across a sharp knuckle. How many songs have these fingers performed? How many meals have they prepared?

_How much have you put into others, afraid that they’d one day forget you?_

“I know,” Suna answers, “and thank you.” _For entrusting me with a part of you._

Osamu’s fingers curve into Suna’s own, like a shriveling vine, entwining itself in search of a life that tastes like hope.

“Keep my brother company when I’m gone, yeah?” Osamu smiles, wavering in the dusk. “Tsumu’s a big fat jerk and somewhat of an asshole, but I hope people won’t hate him too much. He gets lonely pretty easily, even if he’ll never admit it. And,” a pause, as his throat closes up on him, “he’s always been looking after me, so I know it’s going to be really tough on him.”

“Sure,” Suna entangles his fingers deeper into Osamu’s own, feels the hints of fear in the lines of his palm. “Sure.”

The hospital room is soundless, but when Osamu’s fingers begin to tap against his with practiced grace, he knows there’s a melody hidden here, in the folds of his hospital gown, between the cracks of the walls, beneath skin, even. A song that begs to be heard.

“I know what you’re thinking now, and I won’t,” Suna says abruptly. He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t believe he needs to. “You know I won’t.”

And Osamu closes his eyes, air burning in his lungs. When he releases a quiet breath, it sounds pained and relieved, fearful and hopeful, falling against Suna’s lashes like farewell.

“Thank you too, then.”

* * *

On the brink of a winter morning, Suna climbs three stone steps. As snow falls in fragile heaps, he walks a known path, nose buried in his scarf. The broadness of his back stands taller, surer, like how one rises after a perfect storm. A plastic bag dangles from his pocket.

When he arrives at his destination, his hands pulse with the ghost of a touch. Patiently, he wipes the thin layer of snow from atop the stone, kneels down, and lights a few sticks of incense. Suna clasps his hands together with a small smile.

He opens his mouth to speak then, only to be interrupted by a familiar group of voices.

“Is this the right place?”

“The last time we put Oomimi in charge of directions, we ended up lost for over an hour.”

“Everyone, please be respectful.”

“Didn’t Miya send us the address? See—there he is—Miya.”

Suna shifts and turns his body, rising to stand. Behind him, Atsumu greets him with a wave, and further along the path, a few steps away from Atsumu, members of the Inarizaki Boys Volleyball Team approach hesitantly.

“You’re late,” Atsumu calls to them, gesturing to them to come closer.

Kita is the first to step forward, “I apologise. We had a mix-up with the directions.”

Several pairs of feet shuffle against the snowy path as they stand around the grave. A chilly winter breeze brushes past, and they huddle a little closer, solemn looks on all their faces.

“Everyone,” Atsumu begins, voice fraught with a rare tenderness, “I’d like you to meet my brother, Miya Osamu.”

Altogether, they bow formally at the waist, and Atsumu continues.

“I used to mention you guys a lot around him, and it’s my fault for not telling you sooner, but I think that he would’ve really liked to meet you all,” he reaches to touch the stone, gently. “He’d always been the mellow one out of us two, but he liked meeting new people.”

Akagi grins, “Sounds like someone we would’ve loved to have on our team.”

“Yeah,” Suna agrees, “I think he would’ve loved that too.”

For a single instant, Atsumu glances at him, and they share a knowing smile. It’s been a while since Atsumu traded his fried mess of hair for his natural colors, but Suna thinks that the darker shade suits him, worn like a symbol of maturity.

“So,” Kita hovers closer to Atsumu, shoulder brushing against the other’s arm, and peers up with a kind expression, “why don’t you tell us more about Osamu?”

And as the conversation dips into a soft lull, Suna’s mind dives into a memory. It isn’t hard to reach for it; rather, it lies open on the surface, a heartbeat away, fresh in the back of his eyelids. He sees moonlight on the curve of a cheek, fingers upon dusty keys, and a back turned towards a garden of fireworks.

Quietly, he smiles to himself, and remembers.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! comments and thoughts are greatly appreciated!! <3
> 
> you can also find me on my twitter  
> [https://twitter.com/uzumaeee](https://twitter.com/uzumaeee/status/1309993857736564736?s=20)


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